


let's go and see the stars

by amosanguis



Series: wingfic [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternate Universe - Wings, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OTP: No Not Without You, Romantic Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers-centric, Vague World Building, Vengeful Steve Rogers, Wingfic, brief blood and gore, mentions of torture, short scenes, title from a song, vague fic is vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 17:02:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2355902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amosanguis/pseuds/amosanguis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve’s wings have always been too big.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's go and see the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Fly Away" by Lenny Kravitz

-z-

 

Steve’s wings have always been too big.

 

-x-

 

Steve spits blood and his wings tremble – he tries to heft them up, use the one that hasn't been grabbed as a weapon.  Maybe if he swung around, used the momentum – but then the other wing is being grabbed and he’s forced to his knees.

A punch and then two connect with his jaw.

He clenches his own fist, tries to throw his weight backwards and get his foot underneath him, but it’s futile - the hands on him are too strong.

There’s a knee to his gut but it’s the guy pulling out a chunk of feathers that makes him scream.

 

-x-

 

Steve had only _just_ made it to the bathtub before it happened – _just_ in time to scream as skin and muscle was torn as his body shifted and his wings exploded out, exploded up.  The tub fills with blood and chunks of gore and he can't help but wonder if he's going to die.  Healthy kids bleed out all the time during their manifestations.  And Steve never was very strong – not in body, but as his mama cards her fingers through his sweat-slick, blood-sticky hair, he knew he had to fight.

“Oh, my boy,” his mama whispers as Steve sobs, “my poor boy.  Breathe, please breathe.”

His Manifestation lasts for hours and he passes out from the pain of it more than once.  Every time he wakes, his wings are bigger and he’s been pushed further down into the tub – his mama trying desperately to keep his head above the pool of thick blood.

 

-x-

 

Steve has barely made it to his feet when the kid he's fighting is thrown into a wall.

 

-x-

 

Carefully, slowly, Steve’s mama works his wings into the harness – it hurts, _God,_ it hurts.  But they’re too big and Steve has to get to school sometime today and he doesn’t have enough muscle control (or strength) to keep them folded up properly.

Some days, he just wants to cut them off, wants to be able to walk in a straight line without tumbling to the side; he wants to be able to walk for more than a few minutes without having to risk an asthma attack.

“Never say anything like that again,” his mama near-yells, her voice harsh and her nails digging into his too-thin arm, “never, Steve – do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve stutters.  Then he whispers, “They’re so heavy, though.  And the color—”

“Enough,” she says, standing and letting go of Steve.

 

-x-

 

From the colors that Steve _can_ see, he knows that Bucky’s wings are _beautiful_ , and Steve never gets tired of looking at them (just as Bucky never gets tired of showing them off to Steve, spreading them wide and arching them over Steve’s head – shading him from the sun).

“My mom says they’ll be Range Three, soon,” Bucky says.  “I can take us flying!”

“You’ll take me nowhere,” Steve says sternly; not for the first time he wishes he could see the right colors to properly see Bucky’s wings.  He can just make out muted reds, but he knows there’s so much more.

“If I work hard enough, they’ll be Range _Four_ ,” Bucky keeps going right over Steve, leaning forward so he was looking into Steve’s eyes – his sincerity burning bright, “we’ll go up into the sky together!”

“I’ll watch you from down here,” Steve says, trying to keep the sadness from his voice.  He’s optimistic about a lot of things in his life – but growing into his wings isn't one of them. 

Bucky makes a pained noise in the back of the throat as he tries to reach for Steve; Steve shakes him off.

 

-x-

 

Steve’s mama had a dove’s wings, she says his daddy had a crow’s.

Steve looks at his too big, too dark wings and wonders what part of his soul has made him look like this.

She looks like she wants to say something else, but she just looks away.  (And before he gets the chance to ask, he’s watching as she falls down sick and then she’s gone.)

Bucky comes from a long line of fire hawks and Steve can only watch as Bucky grows with his wings – as they get longer, sleeker and sharper, the muscle building in all the right places.

 

-x-

 

At night, before Bucky had even grown his adult feathers, he used to lead Steve up the roof of their apartment.  Steve would laugh as Bucky flapped his wings, trying to get some lift.

“You try, too!” he’d say.

“I’m fine, Buck,” Steve would say, settling on a stool he had hidden up there for years.

Bucky would roll his eyes – but he never reached for Steve’s harness, never forced Steve to try to get his wings pumping.  He wanted to, no doubt, but he knew the pain it caused, knew that Steve would be aching for hours after.

 

-x-

 

Bucky’s draft letter comes on a Friday.

They don’t move from their mattress for the rest of the weekend.

 

-x-

 

“You’re so beautiful,” Bucky whispers into Steve’s skin as Steve chuckles sleepily into his pillow.  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself when I can't wake up next to you.”

“You’ll be fine,” Steve says, sitting up on his elbows to look over his shoulder, watching as Bucky nuzzles at the base of Steve right wing.  “Just come home safe.  If I get over there and find out you’re dead, I’m gonna be mad.”

Bucky grins.

“Don’t tell me,” he says, “you’ll hunt me down and bring me back?”

“Yes,” and the playfulness is gone from his voice, leaving only a heaviness that settles between them. 

“Guess I’ll just have to be safe, then,” Bucky says, kissing his way up Steve’s back before pressing harshly against Steve’s mouth. 

Steve whimpers, pulls him closer – desperate for them to become one person.

 

-x-

 

Steve’s wings had always been too big, too heavy – his primaries dragging against the ground, waiting for a growth spurt that never came.

Until it did; it came by the name of one Dr. Erskine.

 

-x-

 

The first time he gets to look at his wings after the serum – he sees that they’re not just black.  They’re tinged with reds, with blues closer to the base.  Then all he wants is to see Bucky, to take him in with his new eyes and see _just how red_ Bucky’s wings are.

 

-x-

 

Sometimes Steve forgets that he can lift his wings now – that they don’t have to drag on the floor anymore.

Even though Peggy was supposed to be off to Europe already, she’s the one who takes Steve up to a roof – walks him through everything anyone with a Wing Range of three or more should already know.

She tells him how to angle his wings, how to get perfect running start and just how hard he’ll have to jump (“I don’t think that’ll be issue,” Steve had said, a childish grin spreading across his face; she grins back) to catch the winds.  She tells him how to find thermals, how to use them to glide, and how he can travel for miles with barely a beat of his wings.

She watches him carefully during his first flight, her swan’s wings catching the sun just right as she tucks them in close and rolls into a dive.

Then she’s teaching him how to bank sharply and how to evade during a dive.  Steve soaks up the lessons until he’s exhausted and he crashes onto his back on the roof (he recovers quickly but then Phillips is there and he’s yelling at Peggy for not getting packed).  He waves her off, tells her that he'll keep practicing.

 

-x-

 

“If I read the posters right, you've got somewhere to be in thirty minutes,” Phillips grouches, his owl’s wings bunching around his shoulders and shaking in his irritation.

“Yes, sir,” Steve says, his eyes on the map, “I do.”  Then he turns on his heel, gathers his shield and steals a helmet, and with the barest flap of his wings takes off into the sky.

 

-x-

 

Bucky’s wings are dirty and the feathers that aren't missing, are caked together with dried blood.  When Steve gets them into the woods and with the others, he settles Bucky close to a fire and wraps his wings around the both of them.

“Now we know why you’re wings are so big,” Bucky says, his voice rough as he nuzzles against Steve’s neck.

“We’re okay,” Steve says, pulls Bucky tighter against him and lifts his wings a little higher – blocking their faces entirely, “we’re going to be okay.”  He presses chaste kisses to Bucky's temple, to his forehead.

Steve waits for someone to say something, for a soldier to walk up and try to peek in on them.  No one ever does.

In the morning, as Steve leads them back towards base, he keeps Bucky always within arm’s reach, always under a large wing.

 

-x-

 

When the cheering has died down, Steve leads Bucky back to his own tent (being Captain America had its privileges and Steve’s never been so thankful).

Carefully, he works through Bucky’s feathers – cleaning them; keeping his touch gentle and staying mindful of each flinch and twitch of muscle along Bucky’s back.  He whispers soft stories about what’s happened to him, tells jokes about Peggy and Phillips and Howard, tells Bucky that he can really, truly fly now.

“And when you’re better, Buck,” Steve says, “we’ll go up into the sky together.”

A sob wracks through Bucky’s body and he turns and presses his forehead into Steve’s chest, curls into Steve the way Steve used to when he was ninety-five pounds and could barely breathe.  Steve wraps him up, holding Bucky as he shakes apart in his arms.

 

-x-

 

When the Colonel sees them in the morning, sees the way Bucky’s feathers have been worked through – he knows.  He doesn’t say anything beyond a whispered, “Be careful, Rogers,” and then he's telling him that they’re headed back to England to see Howard.

 

-x-

 

This time, when they’re left alone – it’s Bucky who’s muttering sleepily into his pillow as Steve takes him in.  He takes in the new scars along Bucky’s back and along his side, tracing them with fingertips and tongue.

“You’re insatiable,” Bucky says even as he turns and pushes Steve backwards until Steve's head hits the foot of the bed; Bucky straddles him and kisses him, grinding his hips down.

“Looks like I’m not the only one,” Steve laughs, his eyes locking onto Bucky’s before sweeping back – taking in how Bucky’s wings reflect the sunlight that comes in through the half-drawn curtains, red glinting silver.

 

-x-

 

Steve’s grown into his wings, but they’re still big and, in Nazi Germany – they make excellent targets.

 

-x-

 

Steve throws his head back and he screams.

The bullets tear through his wings, through Bucky’s wings when Steve tries to shelter them.  Bucky manages to get a shot off, deals with the Hydra soldier – then he’s being blasted again and then he’s stuck on the side of the train.

Steve reaches for him, knowing that Bucky’s wings are torn to shit – that Bucky _won’t be able to fly_.  He stretches out, tries to grab him. 

He doesn’t make it in time.

He doesn't make it in time and Bucky falls.  His wings splayed as he twists and tries to beat them and all Steve can see is a splash of bright red wing against the harsh white of snow.

He’s about to fall after him, but there’s a hand on his shoulder – someone pulling him back.

 

-x-

 

For the first time in what feels like years, Steve lets his wings drag on the floor.  And then the rage flares through his veins, tightens his chest and chokes him and he’s tearing and burning Hydra to the ground.

When he crashes his plane into the water, his wings haven’t fully healed – so he doesn’t try to escape.  He just lets the ice settle into his bones, happy that he’ll be seeing Bucky soon.

 

-x-

 

“Y’know,” Tony starts when Steve first meets him, his eyes dance excitedly and Steve tries not to stare at the empty spaces where Tony’s wings are supposed to be (he wonders if he’s got them harnessed against his back and is just wearing his shirt and jacket over them), “they still haven’t been able to find out what kind of wings you have.”

“Excuse me?” Steve tries not to flinch.  Just because everyone saw each other’s wings didn't mean they were invited to talk about it – only friends and family were allowed to openly discuss each other’s wings.  (And only lovers touched them.)

“Oh, sorry,” Tony catches himself, though he doesn’t sound particularly sorry, “people are little bit more open now about,” he gestures to Steve’s wings.  “Do you need some time?”

What Steve needs is to get away from the conversation, but he has a feeling he won’t be able to.  So he shakes his head and lets Tony keep talking at him, only half-listening until Natasha comes up and rescues him.

“Captain Rogers, Fury would like to speak with you,” she says.

 

-x-

 

Steve reads everyone’s files – learns that people have begun openly identifying each other’s wings.  

In Steve's day, wings were seen as manifestations of one's soul, one's personality - they were hints of what kind of person they were.  Also, it was never about color or shape – it was whether or not you could _fly_ , if you had Range Three or Range Four wings (Steve’s are a Range Six; he’s the only one ever).

But today, today he sees only those with swan’s and brightly colored parrot’s wings as models; soldiers are hawks and eagles and falcons and the occasional owl; artists tend to be song birds (the irony isn't lost on him); the corvids seem to be everywhere.

Steve laughs, though – trying to picture Peggy Carter as being seen as nothing more than a model, desired only for her looks and not her powerful and fierce mind, her deadly accurate aim.

He remembers Howard – his wings a fierce pink – and wonders if Tony had the same flamingo’s wings.  He doesn’t ask.

Because when he gets to Tony’s file, reads what happened to him in that little cave – he fights the urge to vomit.

(He feels ghost bullets ripping through his own wings, feels that agony bright and sharp before he manages to pull himself out of it.)

 

-x-

 

He’s on a highway overpass and he’s throwing his wings open wide and the man with a metal arm freezes.  His hands fall to his side and the men behind him shout at him in confusion.  He ignores them and takes a step forward.

Then Steve sees a flash of red over his shoulder – red glinting silver.

 

-x-

 

Steve used to wonder why his wings were so big - why they were black with that hint of red. 

As he burns another Hydra base off the map, as he guns down one more scientist (didn’t matter if they had physically cut into the Winter Soldier or not – to Steve, they were all the same, they were all guilty) – he recognizes the black of his wings as his love’s life cut (temporarily) short, and the red for the blood he’s so willing to soak the earth with in his vengeance.

He looks over at Bucky, standing hot and solid at his side, breathing and alive and slowly learning how to smile again - and he finally feels settled into his skin, finally feels that his wings fit.

 

-z-

 

End.


End file.
